


Silhouette

by coffeehousehaunt



Category: Lost Girl
Genre: Bo's perspective, Character Study, Destiny stuff, F/F, Internal Monologue, Memory, POV First Person, PWC - Porn with Character?, PWP, Valkubus - Freeform, Valkyrie stuff, living history, s5, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeehousehaunt/pseuds/coffeehousehaunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are answers; I've asked you for them before. You give me your throat instead. Muscles cording, chin lifting, pointing--<i>here. It's right here.</i> </p>
<p>In you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silhouette

**Author's Note:**

> Written entirely while listening to the deconstructed version of "Supernatural" by Ke$ha. I have no shame.

There are answers; I've asked you for them before. You give me your throat instead. Muscles cording, chin lifting, pointing-- _here. It's right here._

In you. 

I thought it was obstinacy, at first. Also, you hated me--don't bullshit me, you did. And then, selfishness, fear--maybe I was wrong, but with the track record my other lovers have, can you really blame me? 

And for the record, I wasn't _completely_ wrong about that, either. Seriously, why does everyone think that withholding information will stop me from doing something I have to do? They're the ones who believe in destiny. 

But no. It's just another trick of the Fae. They bind their books in living skin and make the reading death. 

Except you found a way around it. I'm learning; you say so much, to someone who's listening. 

Your thumb slips down my cheek, soft and warm as a thought, your eyes following the line it traces. Wide, bright. _You weren't supposed to exist. But you do._

And, okay, I'm a little tired of this whole Fae royalty routine. "The Chosen One" sounds like something straight out of Star Trek. The only thing that ever made me different is that I wore the damn shoes when everyone else was too scared to put them on. When your back's against the wall and whatever. 

You don't look at me like I'm some kind of Fae superstar, though; you were there when they outlined her, when they drew her up like the Fae five-millennia plan and decided those shoes were for me. Not _me_ , though; a woman who looks like me. A woman I'd have to die to become. You look at me with that ache in your eyes, and I know you see her, too, laid over my skin like a ghost. 

When your thumb traces over my lower lip and your hand shakes, you tell me the nightmares are real; you've met them. You served them and you fought them. They overturned Valhalla and hired you to find me. I'm still asking _what_ , though. What do you see? They look at me like I'm hope, but I'm just Bo. 

When your hands are shaking and your eyes are wide, it means the worst is yet to come. I'm still asking _what?_ , but there are gaps, and we're rushing blind right into them. 

When you reach up with clumsy hands and pull me down, the bruising press of your mouth opening under mine like you want me to taste all the things you can't say out loud--you have something to tell me. 

When you slip over my fingers, soft gasp and a bitten lip, your chin tilts up and your back arches, pushing up the dip below your collarbone and the flat above your breasts like it's right there, it's right there, if I only knew how to read it. Sure, you kept a diary. But everything you've been, everything you've seen--it's inside you. And every time, you give it up. 

I twist one hand in your hair, pull, bend down to kiss the line of your throat, and your face falls slack. And my hands are shaking, because I'm close--to the answers racing under your skin, beating against my fingertips. So close to you, arching up like you're willing the words into existence on your skin. _Work with me._

When you hook your knee around my waist and flex, your hips tilting and your body sliding closer, your hands tangling in my hair, your lip curling over your teeth while you gasp and moan, you're fighting your way to my side. And no one fights like you. They didn't just hire you, they _chose_ you; they wanted the best. 

And here you are. And whatever I am, you'll bend heaven and earth with me to make sure that the image hovering over my skin never becomes real. That we are more than the fulfillment of thousands of years and dozens of lives and all their plans pressed together in our skins like a book that's only just opening. That we have a choice. 

There are battles clamoring in your throat and ravensong in your mouth. Pale sweating hands, twisting in the sheets, that have been coated with clear calluses and rivers of blood, steady on swords. Soft on my skin. 

I am listening for myself in them. 

You are the evidence; the answer. There are pages inside the bones of your ribcage and I peel you open with my mouth layer by layer to read the secrets bound up in your blood, feather your edges and crease your spine, my history in skin with a beating heart as delicate as glass; hold you so tight there are fingerprint bruises when we're done. I dive in for hours and never come back empty-handed. 

And you'll be there to help me figure out what it means.


End file.
